Troubled
by Marisha.M
Summary: A prequel to Heroes, showing the lives of the characters before the events that take place in the tv series Heroes, and how the characters got to the situations they are in now.
1. Claire

Troubled

Claire

An intolerable ringing snapped Claire to attention and she woke almost on contact with the dresser as her head reeled forward. The large face of the clock glared at her, arms almost touching in a reverent close of chapter. Six thirty. A cold film of sweat settled like bathwater beneath Claire's body. The air smelt like fabric, thick and woolly, trapping the heat like a sponge. The hazy dust of her room flew like flies, as if escaping from a terrible nightmare.

Lately, she hadn't been sleeping well at all. It wasn't so much the nightmares – no, those were controllable and often forgettable – it was the time when she woke up after being chased by some strange inhuman creature or dreaming about being licked by flames. Sometimes it would be so quiet that Claire almost felt compelled to scream. And although there was no sound, there would always be whispers inside her head. Muttering, incoherent words, signs, languages that left her awake for hours afterwards. And the darkness. As if eclipsed by a black death sheet, the sky remained stoic and unmoving, bottled in darkness.

"Claire!" Her mother's voice travelled up the stairs. "Claire, your breakfast is ready!" – a pause, and then quieter, with more anxiety – "Lyle, can you _please_ get your sister, she's going to be late for school."

"Mom, I'm coming!" Wiping her face on the sleeve of her pyjamas, she got dressed and tried to fit back into the routine she had fixed for herself for the past eight years.

"Mom's getting really mad." Lyle met her at the stairs, almost gloating with schaedenfreude. Claire caught her breath, slammed the palm of her hand into Lyle's chest, but he twisted away by reflex, and instead she caught the edge of the stair banner. She raised her hand to her face. A sharp, raised, horizontal streak of blood throbbed heavily. She looked at her brother, his face so young, so carefree. Long hair in his face, eyes just like hers, but no, they weren't really brother and sister, just two children growing up together. He was never to be like her. He opened his mouth to say something as he saw the tears form in the corner of her eyes but she spoke first.

"Shut up."

"No time for breakfast!" Screeched Mrs. Bennet. She scooped up Mr. Muggles with her left hand and began pushing Claire out the door. "You are so late, young lady. Your father's already waiting in the car. I'll see you after school, and we are going to talk. This won't do."

"Whatever, mom." Claire muttered under her breath. As she caught her mother's face through a side-glance, she instantly regretted it. Mrs. Bennet's face crumpled up and she hugged Mr. Muggles tighter to her as if for protection. Oh, Claire knew her mother pretended to be a tight-assed, stupid little dog freak/lover, but what she really was was another matter entirely.

"What?" Mrs. Bennet whispered. Her daughter, half out the door, with her blonde hair like gossamer across her face, the one she had brought up for thirteen years. The one she had wished for so, so much. When Noah finally brought her home that day she cried with relief. Such beautiful blue eyes. Such innocent oblivion to the destructive world around her. _What happened to you, Claire?_ She swallowed her words and began to close the door. "Go to school."


	2. Peter

Troubled

Peter

"Hey, baby, you wanna come in?" She leant across the doorway like a harlot, all limbs and body oil, the sheen of her satin shoes like the soft curves of her earlobes. She pursed her red lips, drawing her head to one side, waiting for an answer. Her eyes almost mocked him.

"No thanks," Peter stammered, keeping his eyes down on the dirty pavement. Pigeon shit littered the cracks like white mud. The whine of a police car started far off. She looked up for a moment, cigarette burning in her deft fingers, neck rising like a startled horse. He thrust his hands through his hair, trying not to look. He really needed a haircut. "I-I can't."

"It's already paid for, baby." She bent down, dropped her cigarette inches from the floor. Her breasts were like swelling domes. She viciously stabbed the offending stub out with the points of her stilettos. Peter stared at this motion, mesmerised by her slow, sensuous movements. "Now – how about you come in and have a chat with me? I get so lonely sometimes, you know." She smiled, very seductively. For the first time, Peter stared right back at her and saw her smile waver a little, but not much. How could she stand there, every night, inviting perverted strangers into this brothel of tangled bodies, telling them she was lonely? Maybe she was, though. Peter saw something naked in her eye. One second. Then it was gone, replaced by that horrible plastic shine so mirrored by the many people he was surrounded by. Even Nathan had started to resemble the masses.

"I know you're trying to help," He said, maintaining a normal voice, still speaking to her like he would speak to all those other people in New York city. The voice which he used to push people away – that elderly woman packing frozen dinners into her shopping cart at the supermarket, the plump waitress from the diner, the newspaper man whom he visited everyday. _No thanks. I'm fine. See you tomorrow._ "But you can't. You don't understand. Keep the money."

She came out from the doorway and stepped out onto the pavement. The light from inside no longer illuminated her face, and she seemed more vulnerable.

"Try me." She said evenly.

"Hey, I'm sure this isn't part of your job description." Peter joked, looking at her again. She really was very pretty. Almost sad, now that thought about it. Her smile had a sad crookedness to it.

"There's a lot of worse things that I've done," She replied, softly, "That aren't part of my job description."

Peter looked away again. What harm could it do? One hooker, one street, one city. One world. What did it matter? Lately, he'd been feeling very small.

"I feel like – like I'm not meant to be here sometimes." He started. "There's this feeling that I get – I wake up at night, and everything's so still. It's like I've entered another realm. It's like someone's trying to tell me I don't belong. That this world is rejecting me." Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he tried not to stammer.

There was a long pause. Peter didn't look up.

"Mr. Petrelli, I have to go back in." She said, her voice betraying little emotion. But – there it was – what was it? There was a touch of something strange in her voice – was it fear? Recognition? Hard to tell. "Anytime you wanna come back – and I mean _anytime _– you come here and ask for me, okay, honey? My name's Ronnie. But don't ask for her. When you come to the door, you best ask for Vivica." She smiled once more before shutting the door.

Peter's phone began to rang. He was in the confusing alleyway once more, lit up by cheap lights and neon signs. Beginning to muscle his way through the crowds of wide-eyed, sweaty men, he picked up.

"Hello?"

"Peter! It's Nathan."

"Oh."

"Where the hell are you? Sounds like-"

"I'm watching TV."

"Oh. Right. Well, just wanted to remind you that dad's funeral is going to take place on Thursday. Wear something nice."

"Wear something nice?" Peter said bitterly. "Is that all you're going to say to me, Nathan? Wear something _nice_?"

Nathan sighed over the line.

"Look, you obviously need to talk about something. How about we meet for lunch tomorrow – oh, wait, not tomorrow, I mean Tuesday. Tuesday?"

"Whatever." Peter said resignedly. "I gotta go." He clicked the phone dead and let it rest in the palm of his hand for a few seconds before slipping it back into his pocket. The weekends were the worst. He couldn't wait till a couple of hours, just a couple, when he could wake up in his bed, the uniform ready for him, like armour. To go to Mr. Deveaux's pent-house, airy and clean, away from all the nasty grittiness, the _realness_ of Soho. Maybe Simone would be there. Maybe this time he would see her smile again. Maybe this time he could say something to her.

A man tumbled into him, almost knocking him to the pavement. His expression was wild, feverish even. He started to apologise, then scrambled up and started to run again. He seemed to be in a hurry.

"Hey, watch it!" Screams as the man careened into someone else. Peter looked up at the sky, at the solitary single star that seemed to be beaconing a diminishing hope to him. He could ask her for a drink, look into her eyes, tell her how much he loved her.

Maybe.


End file.
